


Tease Me, Please Me

by downrightpiano



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dubious workplace practices, M/M, Mob Boss Thorin, Stripper Thranduil, Thorin enjoys his denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downrightpiano/pseuds/downrightpiano
Summary: Thorin drops in on one of his clubs for a routine visit and spends some time with the club's favourite employee.





	Tease Me, Please Me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic: Thorin is the shady owner of a possibly-shady establishment and has dubious workplace interactions with his not-so-shady employee.
> 
> AKA 1.2k words of absolutely nothing happening.

Thorin sits at his seat, hand resting against a glass of bourbon. The VIP lounge was located on the mezzanine, and it offered an encompassing view of the ground floor. The increased privacy combined with the ability to observe the club’s patrons unnoticed had proven useful several times in the past for Thorin.

He sweeps his gaze over the crowd below him before draining the contents of his glass. A waitress appears to collect the empty vessel. “Another, sir?” She smiles at him.

Thorin grunts.

The waitress flashes another smile at him before hurrying away. Thorin sees her speak into her headset in his periphery. He watches the throngs of people, searching for anything that was too illegal. This is an aboveground business, and Thorin intends to keep it that way.

A body slides into the seat next to him.

“Have you come to grace us with your presence again, Mr. Oakenshield?” The Elvenking drapes himself on Thorin’s shoulder and gazes in amusement at the side of his face.

Thorin refuses to look at the man. Instead, he continues to observe the activities on the ground floor. A beam of light cuts across their booth, throwing his companion’s pale thighs into sharp relief before sweeping away.

The waitress appears to set down another glass of bourbon before retreating. Thorin takes the glass in hand and swirls it before taking a drink. Ice clinks.

A smile grows, slow and amused, on the Elvenking’s face. He presses up against Thorin’s side, cants his head. His lips tickle Thorin’s ear. “In another one of your moods again, I see.” The man trails his fingers over the glass in Thorin’s hand, brings the glass up between their entwined fingers. He takes a long sip, watching as Thorin glares at him. The man licks at a bead of bourbon clinging to the lip of the glass.

His companion’s diadem glints in the dim lighting and Thorin thinks it’s a miracle his eyes haven’t been taken out by it yet.

The Elvenking sets the hefty glass down and straddles Thorin’s lap. Thorin can feel the heavy bass beat vibrating through the soles of his shoes. The dancer slides a hand down Thorin’s chest, fingertips trailing heat into his skin. Thorin watches the way the man’s eyes glitter as he tilts his head.

“You seem overly tense, Mr. Oakenshield.” The Elvenking undulates his hips, slow waves of movement that drag against Thorin’s shirt.

Thorin grunts, not bothering with an answer. He pushes past the silver of the Elvenking’s cloak, runs his hands up the dancer’s thighs, up his waist, over his chest. He brushes a thumb over the brooch at the Elvenking’s throat before unclasping it. The cloak slithers a silver waterfall down the Elvenking’s back, pooling in a puddle at Thorin’s feet. The Elvenking watches him through his eyelashes.

In any other situation, Thorin would find the combination of a man in a diadem, glitzy thong and knee high boots laughable, but here he takes the sight in with a keen eye.

The Elvenking grinds his hips into Thorin’s lap and scrapes his nails over his beard. A shudder skitters down Thorin’s spine and he tightens his grip on the Elvenking’s thighs.

Thorin resists the urge to sneeze as a strand of blond hair brushes his face. “You look silly. I don’t understand what possessed you to dress up as an elf.”

The Elvenking smiles in apparent amusement as he performs a particularly sinuous twist of the hips. “Ah, yes. My silliness has much effect on you, I see.” He unbuttons Thorin’s suit jacket before running his hands over his shoulders, divesting Thorin of the material.

Thorin grits his teeth. “You forgot the ears.” He watches as the Elvenking unbuttons his shirt down to the waistband.

The dancer huffs out a quiet breath. “I knew I was forgetting something.” He drags his entire body against Thorin’s and sighs. “It was good of you to tell me. I’ll be better prepared next time.” He combs his fingers through Thorin’s chest hair before gently tugging at the tufts. He chuckles at Thorin’s glare. “You’re a very frustrated person, Mr. Oakenshield. I know just the solution to put you at ease.” And he places Thorin’s hands on his buttocks. His barely clothed buttocks. Thorin might as well just come out and say it. His thonged ass.

Thorin growls, fingers reflexively twitching before one hand comes up to flick the offending strand of hair out of his face. “There won’t be a next time.”

A chuckle rumbles out of the Elvenking’s chest like a purr. “If you say so, sir.”

Thorin sputters in indignation. Suddenly at a loss for words, he does the first thing that comes to mind. Pinching the Elvenking’s well-formed ass.

The dancer gasps, hips jerking into Thorin’s. He swats the offending hand and hisses into Thorin’s ear. “Naughty man.” He leverages himself up on Thorin’s shoulder, giving Thorin a close look at what sort of fabric the thong was made of, before turning to sit facing away from him.

The Elvenking bends down, reaching between Thorin’s feet to retrieve his discarded cloak. Rolling it into a tight ball of fabric, he sits back up. Thorin watches the stretch and pull of the elastic lying low on the Elvenking’s hips before hooking a finger under the waistband. He stretches it to its full extent before letting it slip from his finger. The resulting impact is barely audible over the club’s din.

Those damned hips twitch before the man in his lap leans back and deposits the ball of fabric on the table. He arches his spine, putting his lips against Thorin’s ear. “Tell me, Mr. Oakenshield. Seeing that you are ultimately the boss, would that constitute as workplace abuse? Or, since you double as my loyal,” and here he grinds that deviant ass into Thorin’s crotch, “customer, would that count more as the customer taking advantage of the staff?”

Thorin drags his hands up the insides of the man’s legs, spreads them and squeezes his inner thighs. “In both situations, I am the one keeping you employed, and I think you should take that into consideration.”

The dancer presses into Thorin’s hands, thighs flexing. He lets out a breathy hum. “Oh yes, the threatening. In your absence I’d forgotten about your fondness for threatening me.” He undulates in a way that no one should be able to comfortably while literally bending backwards. Thorin grimaces.

He squeezes once more before he lets his hands feel over the man’s hips, the flat of his belly, the expanse of his ribcage expanding and contracting as he breathed in, breathed out. The peaks of his nipples, the hills and valleys of his collarbones. He lets go as the man turns to face him again.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed our rendezvous,” the Elvenking sighs against his ear, “I’m afraid it’s time to say goodbye.” With one last tantalizing press of his body, he extricates himself from Thorin’s lap.

Thorin harrumphs. “Thank God for small mercies.” He does up the buttons on his shirt and shakes out his jacket.

The Elvenking smiles down at him magnanimously and taps him on the nose. “My schedule remains unchanged. If I’m unavailable, I’ll be sure to let the manager know.” He picks up his cloak from the table. “I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Oakenshield.” With a wink and a blown kiss, he all but flounces away.

Thorin watches his retreating figure for a moment, then picks up what’s left of his drink and throws it back.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, you literally read 1.2k words of stripper Thranduil giving mob boss Thorin a lap dance with verbal banter and nothing else.


End file.
